Wounds
by Kosaka
Summary: There were only two reasons to attend the special summer session at Hogwarts. The first, he and Ron had agreed, was because if they didn't, Hermoine would never shut up. The second, well, that was personal. Snape/Harry
1. How's Your Neck, Professor?

A/N: My first Harry Potter fic. I'm not that happy with it, but I'm also a harsh critic, so I'm posting it anyway. If you like it, great. If not...meh, whatever. This story is complete at 7 chapters. Story takes place after 'The Deathly Hallows' but ignores some things that don't suit my purposes (like the entire epilogue), so may be very slightly AU.

Warnings: SLASH. Snape x Harry. Don't like it? Don't read it. Simple, yeah? Rated M for adult themes (but nothing too graphic).

_**Standard Disclaimers Apply**_.

**Wounds**

**I. How's Your Neck, Professor?**

It was hot. Well, no, actually, the dungeon classroom was quite cool, but knowing the heat wave outside was enough to make Harry feel lazy, like he'd rather be in the shade of a tree by the lake than trapped in the bowels of the castle taking summer lessons so that he didn't have to come back for an eighth year at Hogwarts. So why was he here? Well, there were two reasons, he supposed. The first one, he and Ron agreed, was to shut Hermoine up. The second? Well, the second was personal.

Harry hadn't told Ron and Hermoine what he saw in the pensieve, not really. He'd given them the basic facts, but kept the intimate details to himself. They were Severus Snape's secrets to share, not his. He knew if Snape had known at the time that he would survive Nagini's bite, he'd never have let Harry see so deeply into what Dumbledore once called "the best of" him.

They had lost so much to Voldemort, but the next day, the sun had still risen. It had driven home more surely than anything that he had a whole life to live now...and not the faintest idea what he really wanted to do with it. Sitting in the dungeon classroom, still no ideas really came to mind. An auror? He'd thought so once, but now that he knew what the ministry was really like he wasn't sure he could bear to go work for them. The past month had cost him all sense of direction. No idea what to do with his life, no idea where he fit in the world if he'd already done all the things he'd been 'chosen' for, secretly terrified of what it meant to be just...Harry, and nothing more than that. Most days all he did was help with the reconstruction of Hogwarts--even with magic there was more than enough work to go around, though the dungeon areas of the castle were mercifully unharmed--and try to block Severus Snape's memories from his already overburdened mind.

Snape--he'd woken up for the first time two days ago. Madam Pomfrey seemed to think he was going to pull through, but there hadn't been any news since. The student body was led to believe that he was still quite unwell and wouldn't be able to return to teaching any time soon. At least, that's what everyone was saying. How would Snape react to him once he'd made a full recovery? Harry couldn't help but wonder if it would be more brutal insults and random point deductions than ever, or the frosty silence he'd received after one too many disasters in Occlumency. And while on the subject, how was he going to deal with Snape? It couldn't be the same now that he knew so much.

As Harry was busy dwelling on what-ifs, the dungeon door opened.

"Blimey, he's back already," Ron groaned quietly. Sure, he knew Snape wasn't evil in the strictest sense, but he was still a bastard of a teacher. It wasn't like he wanted the guy dead, but most of the student body was sort of hoping he'd be out of commission for a while. Nothing too serious, just enough to keep him from teaching, really. Harry couldn't exactly say he didn't agree with them, but worry had overtaken reason and he found himself glad to see Snape up and walking around. He moved with the same solid gait he'd always had, but Harry thought he looked a little too pale, maybe even a bit sallow. There were dark patches under his eyes that Harry was sure had never been there before.

"Today," Snape said as he got to his desk, "we will be making a purifying draught." He pointed at the board and instructions scrolled across it as he continued to speak, but it was as if someone had cast mufflatio for all Harry heard of what he was saying. He found himself staring at this spot at the side of Snape's neck where crisp white bandages peeked just barely past the top of his black cloak. It was shocking, he realized, to think of Snape as being unwell. That might be why he was so edgy lately. He'd never thought well of the man in the seven years they'd known each other, teetered between thinking him evil and just plain mean, but above that he'd always thought of him as intelligent, capable, somehow impenetrable, like Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall. But all those illusions had been shattered as they all proved disappointingly human. The presumption that there would be some things that would always remain exactly as he remembered them was comforting, but childish. Now he knew that even Snape could be injured, unwell; that knowledge was jarring.

Harry only vaguely registered Snape saying, "begin," as he took a seat behind his desk, but even this couldn't completely snap Harry back to reality. He nearly tipped his cauldron over twice and had a feeling he'd added something pink and fuzzy that definitely didn't belong. And he was sure Snape was ignoring him because ten minutes into his disastrous attempt at a purifying draught he had a cauldron full of sludge and Snape hadn't vanished it and declared he would have zero points for the day yet, even though Harry already knew it's what he deserved in this particular case.

Finally, he blurted out, "...er, Professor? How's your neck?" It was such a ludicrous, clumsy thing to say out of nowhere that he'd probably have laughed at himself if he wasn't too busy feeling like the class idiot. Everyone else was pretty much laughing at him, and he felt his face heat up in spite of all efforts to prevent it.

Snape's brow rose fractionally, surprised, but Harry hoped not insulted.

"I would imagine, Potter, a fair deal better than your sleeve." He looked pointedly in the direction of Harry's right wrist. The sleeve of his robes had dipped into the flame heating his cauldron and was now on fire. He yelped in surprise and stumbled back, fell from his seat awkwardly and managed to put himself out to the sound of the class's raucous laughter.

* * *

An hour later, Harry flopped sullenly at Gryffindor's table in the Great Hall, not at all interested in lunch, but glad to be free of his traumatic potions experience.

"Cheer up mate," Ron told him, patting his shoulder. "Could have gone worse."

"How do you figure?" Harry snipped.

"Well, he didn't vanish your potion this time," Hermoine said, trying to see the bright side, even though that wasn't going to help much, considering instead of pale minty green, Harry had submitted something that looked like boiling tar at the end of class.

"I wish he had," he answered grumpily. "At least then the worst I could get is a zero and a detention for 'gross incompetence' I wouldn't put a negative grade past Snape."

"You know why you _really_ got that detention," Hermoine said in her mom voice.

"I know, I know," Harry replied before she could really get her lecture going. "Next time I'm feeling any sympathetic leanings, I'll keep my big mouth shut."

* * *

Severus Snape dropped his shirt on the chair with his robes and cloak. I was cold in his office, as always. He'd grown accustomed to the temperature after so many years, but then again, he generally didn't spend much time standing around topless. He unwrapped the bandages around his neck and picked up a beaker of steaming pale green liquid. Pushing his hair out of the way, he poured a decent portion on the still open wound. It frothed, bubbled, and burned a path through the better part of his shoulder and arm before he could stop gritting his teeth. He put the beaker down and pat away the excess liquid. "Has to hurt if it's to heal," he muttered bitterly.

Severus had been so ready to die that night. He'd expected it, not that he was pleased by the prospect. But in death, he'd thought, maybe he would yet find some peace. Fate was not so kind. Now that he was alive, there was no sense in throwing himself away to negligence. He wasn't suicidal, just felt like he'd already lived out his usefulness.

He lifted his arms to apply fresh bandages with a wince. The draught always left a lingering ache in his bones, but anything was fine if it meant the end of Madam Pomfrey's nagging care and kept him out of St. Mungo's. Two days of her was more than he could stand.

Just as he was tucking away the last of the wrapping on his throat, the door opened. His shoulders tensed as he saw Harry Potter reflected in the glass jar full of floating toad bladders. He couldn't show weakness, especially not in front of Potter. There was no logical reason to feel that way, but it was too late to change now. James Potter's son could not be given even the slightest opening to follow in his father's footsteps, surely. He'd had more than enough humiliation for one lifetime. He reached for his shirt, appearing much calmer than he felt at being caught so exposed. "You're early, Potter," he snapped, making quick work of it before pulling his high collared robes and cloak over the top of it.

"Not _that_ early," Harry defended himself, hoping he wouldn't end up with another detention for, of all things, being too punctual.

Snape gestured to a small table at the side of the room where a cauldron and ingredients lay already set up. "You will use this detention to redo that hideous excuse for a purifying draught you submitted this morning. If you make up for your dreadful performance in class, I _may_ be inclined to give you half the grade you would have gotten if you were paying attention when you created _this_ abomination."

Harry blinked as Snape deposited the bubbling purple tar he'd handed in earlier in front of him as a reminder.

"You're...going to let me redo it?" There had to be a catch. There was always a catch when Snape offered to let him out of a class with something greater than a zero if he could help it.

"I should think you would appreciate the opportunity to prove that you aren't completely incompetent. Or are potions beneath 'the boy who lived'?" Snape answered.

"That's not what I meant. Stop putting words into my mouth," Harry snipped thoughtlessly. He hated all that 'boy who lived' stuff. "I just meant it's unlike you."

"You know less about me than you think, Potter."

"And more than you'd care to accept, right?" As soon as the words passed his lips Harry wished he could swallow them. He searched for something to change the subject with. Something. Anything, before Snape decided that homicide would be a good punishment for his big mouth after all... "...er, that's a purifying draught on your desk, isn't it, Professor?"

Damnable boy. His powers of observation only seemed to function when it was most inconvenient. "Yes," Snape replied grudgingly. "As you can see, yours looks nothing like it."

Harry ignored the last comment. He knew Snape was just trying to get under his skin and he'd better not press his luck any further. A palpable silence fell as he rearranged his workspace, weighing his next words carefully. "Madam Pomfrey couldn't magically heal your wound, then," he said at last, hoping to get more out of Snape on how bad his condition really was. Worse than the potions master would care to let on, he was sure, but that didn't tell him much.

Snape was slow to reply. Harry went to work, figuring he was being ignored again.

"...Nagini's venom," the professor said after quite some time, having returned to sit at his desk, "...has made the healing process somewhat...tedious."

"...oh," Harry answered, letting his brain wrap around the new information. The snake venom wasn't letting the wound heal properly then, just like when it had bitten Arthur Weasley. So why the hell was Snape up and walking around? Just how bad was this venom? If it was still in his system, would moving around and getting agitated make things worse for Snape's condition? Madam Pomfrey wouldn't have released him if that was the case, right? "But, you'll recover, right?" he asked after a stretch.

"Is that concern, Potter?" Snape sounded smug.

"Of course it's concern! You nearly died because Professor Dumbledore told you to protect me!" Harry declared.

Snape scoffed. "My life and choices are my own. The deal I made with Dumbledore all those years ago was one of my own making, caused by my own actions and decisions, which have very little to do with _you_. Your potion is curdling. I'm only giving you one chance to make up for your mistake, so pay attention to what you are doing."

Harry turned and began stirring fervently. Snape watched, wondering why on earth he'd had to give the boy detention tonight, when he felt far too weak to endure sitting here for so long himself. Harry had always been, if nothing else, exhausting, and he didn't have the energy for many more of his presumptuous questions.

"So," Harry said one last time, having rescued his potion only barely in time thanks to Snape's snooty little warning. "...you'll recover, then." Snape hadn't really given him a straight answer.

Oh for pity's sake. It was the one last nudge that made Severus's patience snap. "For the very _last_ time, _yes, _Harry, I will be _fine. _Now will you kindly shut up and finish your work!"

He clammed up as quickly as he'd exploded, catching his mistake. Harry caught it too, and his cheeks flushed. Severus Snape had never called him anything but 'Potter'. He suspected there were times Snape would have liked to use a few more colorful words, but he'd refrained. And he most certainly had never, _ever_ called him 'Harry'. It was a kind of proof, he thought, that Snape could finally look at him and see _him_ rather than a mere bi-product of a marriage between something he loved and something he loathed.

He didn't speak again for the rest of the detention. When he got up, putting his potion--which he thought looked like it came out pretty well--in a sample flask and resting it on the desk in front of the potions master, it seemed to take his professor a moment too long to realize it was there. "I'm finished, Professor," he said.

Snape deliberated a moment before replying. "I can see that, Potter," he answered slowly. "You may go." He didn't tell Harry if he'd managed to earn back any of the points he'd thrown away in class. Harry didn't bother to ask. He moved from the office quietly, peeking one last time over his shoulder to find Snape was peering analytically at the flask of liquid, seemingly deep in thought.

On his way back to Gryffindor Tower Harry thought about that analytical look. He wondered if his purifying draught would be good enough to help heal Snape's wounds. He decided if it was, grades and detentions didn't mean much by comparison.


	2. The Renegade Snitch

**Wounds**

**II. The Renegade Snitch**

Two weeks had passed sine Severus's slip-up. He hadn't slipped again. His limited color had returned, and if he was still wearing bandages, Harry couldn't glimpse them past his collar. But Harry hadn't forgotten that detention though. He wanted to hear the potions master call him 'Harry' again. It had become a sort of obsession and he'd been trying to find ways of subtly making him crack without earning himself another night of servitude.

His most recent attempt involved tossing the man his most charming smile and greeting him every time they passed in the hall. He'd be lying if he didn't admit to going out of his way to purposely cross paths with Severus Snape--at least once or twice ...per day. This strange behavior meant that for the past three days everyone in the castle had been looking at him like he'd lost his mind. Well, that was nothing new. He was on a mission, and to hell with what other people thought of it. Even Snape, lately, had been giving him subtle glances like he thought he'd been hit in the head by a bludger one too many times.

Ah, speaking of Snape, he just appeared at the top of the stairs. Harry noticed the way he paused for a moment when their eyes met, as if he was seriously considering turning around and going back for something they both knew he hadn't forgotten so that he could take the long way around and avoid 'the chosen one'...who hadn't been chosen for much of anything but Gryffindor's summer seeker lately, which wasn't exactly a surprise to anyone.

Snape's gaze seemed to harden marginally. He would not be detoured by a teenager, least of all one who was intentionally trying to drive him insane for reasons he couldn't even begin to fathom. He moved down the stairs, ignoring the way Harry's eyes followed his progress so at exactly the appropriate moment he could throw that ridiculous smile at him and say...

"Good morning, Professor Snape."

Well, Harry wasn't going to win this time. He'd planned ahead and knew how to react now. He gave Harry a curt nod and replied tersely, "...Potter," before continuing past him.

Harry's eyes widened. That had been the first time Snape had acknowledged his efforts. He grinned stupidly, and hadn't managed to wipe it off his face entirely by the time Snape had disappeared around the corner.

Ron stared at him long and hard before saying, for probably the tenth time in two days, "You're _mental_."

Harry shrugged it off. "It's going well, I think," he answered. "He acknowledged my existence that time. Give it three more days, and maybe he'll even stop twitching every time I call him 'Professor'." It was funny, really. Dumbledore had so often corrected him from calling the man just 'Snape' over the past seven years. He'd always echoed '_Professor _Snape' as if Harry's omission constituted a dirty word. Now that he was actually calling the man what he should have been calling him all along, Snape didn't seem very pleased by the change.

"He knows you're up to something," Hermoine pointed out.

"Well, yeah," Harry replied. "I should think I'm making _that bit_ rather obvious."

Ron and Hermoine exchanged a look like they wanted to discuss in detail exactly what might have made their friend so incredibly unhinged, but didn't because it would be rude when he was standing right there.

"Right then," Harry stretched a kink out of his back and changed the subject. "Wanna go to the Quidditch Field and practice for tonight's match?"

Ron blinked owlishly, but shrugged. "...yeah, sure."

* * *

Severus raked his fingers through his hair. If Poppy Pomfrey said the word 'check-up' one more time, he thought he might actually scream. He had enough problems without the woman poking at the tender flesh at his throat. It was as good as it was going to get for quite a while--didn't bother him much anymore. There was still pain, yes, but it was sporadic. Intense, but brief. The wounds were sometimes itchy--a blotchy, irritable red, but he could manage them with only a large square of gauze now that they didn't bleed much anymore. The rest would have to be left to time. "I assure you, Madam Pomfrey, that if I have any further complications, I will let you know. Now, if you'll excuse me." He gestured to the door of his office that she should be going. "I am sure you are eager to be on the Quidditch field in case of injuries, are you not?"

Snape would never admit to liking Quidditch. He would never admit, either, that he might have liked to try playing when he was a boy if he hadn't been so busy with his studies. He always attended matches, careful to appear as if he was simply doing his duty as head of Slytherin House. And he would most certainly never admit, he reaffirmed to himself as he locked his office door while listening to Madam Pomfrey disappear up the dungeon stairs, heels clanking distantly until he could no longer hear them, that Harry Potter was damn near one of the best Seeker's he'd ever seen play. No, it was a bitter enough pill to swallow in the privacy of his own mind without anyone else finding out he thought so.

It wasn't a Slytherin match, but to root for Gryffindor would, of course, be sacrilege. Snape hoped those idiot Hufflepuffs somehow managed to scrape a win--no doubt by sheer chance--and improve the odds for his own house down the road. It wasn't really an official season, just a handful of games to take everyone's mind off of the work on Hogwarts, on classes, on being sequestered in the dungeons most of the day while the upper levels remained in a state of disrepair that it seemed, at times, would never be remedied. Snape had to wonder how wise it was for the students to be exerting themselves so rigorously when the scorching sun hadn't given the grounds any reprieve in weeks, but it would be uncharacteristically caring to admit to such concerns. His more immediate concern was how _he_ was going to survive an entire match sitting out in this heat. The sun beat down on his black cloak like it were a magnet for UV radiation. Most of the other teachers and students had adopted cooler, muggleish clothes for the event, but he was Severus Snape, and therefore, appearances must be maintained. The teams, he realized as the strode out to the pitch, were not wearing their customary uniforms, but had donned shorts and t-shirts in their team colors instead, with names and numbers hastily spelled onto the back. He couldn't say as he blamed them. He tried to think cool thoughts--iced lemonade, his dimly lit dungeon office, but at Madam Hooch's first whistle, he could already feel sweat glistening on the back of his neck. His gaze remained calm and steady.

Harry was circling the pitch. His gaze flitted about as he went, searching for some hint of the snitch. The sun cast a golden halo around his shoulders. Blimey, it was hot. It hadn't felt this hot down on the ground. He would simply have to keep his hopes up that he would be able to locate and catch the snitch quickly. He had a feeling that everyone was hoping the game would be highly entertaining...and also incredibly short.

His eyes flit over the crowd. He spotted Luna's silly old lion hat, but it was tilted back from her brow, as if even she thought it had been a bad idea in this weather, though her listless and dreamy expression remained fully in tact.

Professor McGonagall was wearing a hat with a much wider brim than usual today--he presumed for the shade it offered. His eyes landed on Professor Snape and he couldn't help but think 'how does he even _breathe?'_ His customary black cloak and robes looked positively stifling. The dreadful sun seemed to bleach the outer strands of his ebony hair a stark white in contrast. His pale complexion glowed, ephemeral. Harry shook his head. Now was no time to let the heat get to him like this. He had nearly been taken out by a bludger in his daydreaming and gave a sheepish and vague wave of thanks in the general direction of the bludger bat that had missed his nose by a mere six inches.

He shot his gaze around the field again. The Hufflepuff seeker was sharply attentive, but hesitated to move. He followed her gaze. Sure enough, the snitch. It was acting in a most peculiar fashion--peeking in and out of the crowd. He caught sight of it first behind Ron's ear. Then it disappeared in the startled crowd and reappeared by Professor Flitwick's shoulder. He gave only a moment's thought before deciding to go for it. He was skilled at abrupt stops and turns. He was sure that the reason the other seeker hadn't gone for it yet was because she didn't want to hurt anyone, but Harry couldn't afford to hesitate. No, definitely not. He swerved toward it, much to Professor Flitwick's surprise, but just missed as it soared away again, flitting through the open jaws of Luna's lion hat, swooping twice around Hermoine's head. He'd never seen anything quite like it.

The Hufflepuff Seeker followed suit. If Harry was going for it, she would have to do the same, but taking extra care around the audience left her three broom lengths behind. Harry had decided he would just have to trust the people around him to duck.

The snitch shot back out to the field and he turned abruptly to follow. Hufflepuff's seeker wasn't quite as fast and careened head-first into the stands. It took her a good minute to right herself and get back on the trail. And a minute ahead was often quite a lot when it came to Quidditch.

The snitch veered toward the sun and he lost sight of it. Harry cussed under his breath, squinting. The sweat beading on his brow made his hair mat uncomfortably against his forehead and he wiped it away, careless of the odd angles it stood up at from the moisture. It was hardly important at the moment.

He barely registered the announcer calling out "Forty to twenty, favoring Gryffindor!" All he could think about was where that blasted, unruly snitch had off and disappeared to. He spun about again, making rounds. This time, he made sure to glance around the crowd, just in case, and sure enough, he'd spotted it, of all places, floating about an inch to the left of Severus Snape's ear. He didn't think. He barreled right for it, sure somehow that if he let it slip away this time he'd pass out on his broom before managing to catch sight of it again.

Snape's eyes widened as the Firebolt came straight for him. He had the presence of mind to lean to the side before the broomstick could crack open his nose, but the renegade snitch flitted about to the other side of his head. Harry made a sharp turn, reaching, reaching, nearly taking out Professor Trelawney in his efforts, who at this point decided that the safest location from which to watch the remainder of the match was from beneath her seat. Professor Flitwick, luckily, was small enough that even without moving much Harry had missed him on his next turn--if only barely. The snitch had somehow decided it wanted to circle the potions master's head. He could do nothing but sit stiffly and pray it would flit away soon, or Harry, who he had just thinking was a rather good seeker, would clasp his fingers about it. He'd take a Gryffindor win over a concussion, certainly. Poppy Pomfrey was trouble enough without adding another injury to the roster of complaints she had for him.

Harry's hand brushed his right shoulder, reaching, but the broom's incline was too extreme, and as he wrapped his fingers around the snitch, those bright green eyes widened in surprise as he slipped right off of and crashed clumsily forward.

Snape fell back under his weight, eyes widening, and...as if in slow motion, Harry's head came forward until, quite unceremoniously, their lips were locked and Severus's head was colliding with the bench behind him. Professor Trelawney scurried away with a whimper before she could be crushed, and Severus had to blink stars out of his vision for an extended moment before he realized the mortifying way Harry was straddling his hips. They grappled a bit to free themselves of the tangle of limbs and awkward, accidental kiss. The crowd around them was frozen.

On the one hand, Harry had caught the snitch, the game was over. On the other, no one was quite sure yet whether or not he was about to be murdered. Their hands were suspended in mid-air like a bunch of mimes stuck inside invisible boxes for a few seconds before a lion's roar could be heard coming from Luna's hat.

Cheering erupted. Harry scrambled back onto his broom and, with one last glance at Snape, decided not to stick around long enough to find out what the professor would do once the initial shock wore off, taking off back toward the pitch, making a round of it with the snitch in hand. It was quite some time before the crowd calmed down and they headed back to the locker rooms. Harry knew his first order of business: a shower followed by something to wear that wasn't coated in sweat. _'I hope he didn't hit his head _too_ hard,'_ he thought, mind wandering. Ron was talking to him, but for all that he noticed of what was being said it hardly mattered.

"Harry..." Ron complained at his best friend's vacant look.

"Sorry, what?" Harry asked.

"I _said_, if you'd been listening the first time, what do you think made the snitch act like that? I've never seen anything like it."

"Oh, couldn't say," Harry answered with a shrug. "Sort of more worried about Snape than the snitch, really."

"Yeah, see your point. Going after the snitch when it's near _Snape_ of all people like that. I was sure you'd lost it. He's going to kill you next lecture, if he doesn't find a good reason beforehand."

"Yeah, I guess," Harry replied.

"...seriously mad," Ron continued mumbling with a slight grin on his face--a victory was still a victory, after all--"chasing it through the crowd like that." And just as suddenly declared, "Bet you can't wait to wash your mouth out, huh?"

"What? Why?"

"Harry, you freaking _kissed_ Snape!"

Harry colored a bit. His brain hadn't quite let that sink in yet. "I...well, it wasn't really a kiss, you know. My mouth just sort of...fell on top of his, that's all. Doesn't really count as a kiss...does it?"

"Well, if you say so..." but Ron didn't sound terribly convinced.

Harry sighed. Somehow, more than what Snape would do to him, Malfoy's gloating sense of humor is what he was really dreading.

Stepping into a shower stall, Harry shuddered a bit, the full weight of recent events finally hitting him, and his fingers unconsciously touched his lips. He'd taken Snape in over the years--all the things he knew about him, all the things he expected to know, and had seen in Snape because he'd expected to see them. But Snape's lips, which he somehow realized now he'd assumed must be chapped and rough, had been surprisingly soft and yielded when he fell against them. He wasn't going to call what had just happened a kiss, but he would have no choice but to admit that the illusions he had about his Professor were falling away. All that remained was a sort of vague outline filled in by countless question marks, or a puzzle missing dozens of pieces. Who exactly _was_ Severus Snape, once the outer layers were peeled away? It was a question he tried not to think about much, especially since his forays into the pensieve, but it was a question, too, that demanded an answer.

A thought entered his mind. Single, solitary, all-consuming. He finished bathing quickly, dressed, and ran at full tilt--not stopping even as Ron asked what in the bloody hell had gotten into him--toward the infirmary. His sneakers slid on the tile as he entered, and he stopped panting. His eyes darted around the room. No Snape.

Madame Pomfrey gave him a quizzical look. She opened her mouth to speak, but he started before she could. "Professor Snape...is his...er...head okay?" Now that he was saying it, he realized how foolish it sounded about halfway through the sentence.

The woman made a somewhat annoyed clucking noise. "That man is impossible. He wouldn't let me anywhere near him to check. But then, I suppose if he was well enough to get up and outmaneuver me, he must be quite well enough." She shook her head. "Hasn't changed one bit since he was fifteen in that regard. Always thinks he knows what's best and what a registered healer has to say be damned." She seemed rather put out over it. "Oh, never mind it," she sighed, "Never mind. I'm sure he's fine. He's rather durable. In his office brewing something for a headache, no doubt."

"Right, uh, thanks." Harry back-pedaled out of the room. Of course, he'd just hit his head. What had he been thinking? It was only a lump, and... maybe Ron was right about him and he _was_ a little mental. If Snape had been there, what would he have done? Apologized? Snape probably wouldn't have a word of it before giving him another detention.

A lightbulb went off in his head. Detention! Of course! Getting Snape to give him detention would be simple, considering how many detentions he got without even trying. "Brilliant!" he declared, heading back towards Gryffindor Tower with a spring in his step. He had a feeling that if he could somehow break down Snape's defenses when they were alone, he might get some of his questions answered.

As he reached the Fat Lady's portrait it dawned on him that getting detention was going to be the easy part.


	3. Poultice for the Heart

**III. Poultice for the Heart**

Severus leaned his head down onto his desk, applying a poultice to the sore spot that had connected with the bench when Potter had kissed him. No, not kissed. Fell on, crashed into, nearly gave a coronary, but not kissed. That had _not_ been a kiss. Certainly not. It was a lapse in his ability to think due to a pounding headache that had made his mind use the word. He groaned. If he had a concussion because of that idiot boy, there would be hell to pay.

The poultice did its work quickly. His head still ached dully, but his vision cleared and the throbbing subsided. He tossed it on the counter and sat back, taking a few deep breaths. Pain, he supposed, could be considered a kind of proof that he was alive. The pain he could take. It was the humiliation he couldn't bear. The constant and unforgiving blows to his pride that were the most damaging.

His lips still hummed. No, it hadn't been a kiss, but on that subject, he couldn't remember the last time he'd kissed anyone. Had he ever kissed anyone when there wasn't a plot involved, or something to gain? He wracked his brain on the subject but couldn't think of one. He bit the inside of his cheek, chastising himself for letting his mind wander in such irrelevant directions.

The past, he'd long since decided, was a kind of stone--an immovable object that, while varying from one person to the next, is only a matter of point-of-view. Like his memories of James and Sirius, and of Lily, today's events seemed to be etching themselves into his psyche even as he tried to force them from mind.

His head throbbed and he snatched the poultice again irritably, pressing it too roughly to the lump at the back of his skull with a faint growl of discontent. In front of the whole bloody school! Well, in front of everyone who was on campus for the summer session, at least, which was damn close enough. By morning, they would all be talking about his infamous lip-lock with Harry Potter. No, they wouldn't be stupid enough to do so in front of him, but he would still _know_. He would still see the staid glances when he entered the room, hear the way conversations suddenly fell silent.

And then there was the matter of Harry himself, who'd been insufferable since he'd slipped, in his pain-induced rage, and called the boy by name. Not Potter, but 'Harry'. He knew that had been the start of this fiasco, somehow. That moment could be wholly to blame for everything that had happened since. Flying a broom around his head like that--only Potter would be so reckless. So like his father, and...also, very much not like his father.

Severus remembered their Occlumency lessons too clearly. He remembered seeing the muggles who'd raised Harry through his eyes. How they'd treated him. Petunia--who had changed since she was a child in height alone. The bumbling oaf of a husband she'd taken, whose cruel treatment of Harry was seconded, it seemed, only by his own. Guilt overtook him when he thought of it. To Harry, surely, he was no less a tyrant than this 'Vernon', or than James and Sirius had ever been to him. No, that was going too far, Sirus especially. Sirius had nearly gotten him killed, and laughed about it. He said he 'wasn't proud' of the way he'd treated Snape. He'd heard it from Harry--slipped in heated rant--but that only made it a more bitter potion to swallow. If Black had been proud of those acts, at least it would be an admission that they held some weight for him. But not being proud, Severus knew, was not the same as being ashamed.

He grunted and threw the poultice aside again in irritation, let his head fall back, obsidian eyes tracing patches of flickering light across the ceiling. When he was alone like this, his thoughts often ran away with him. He kept them so guarded otherwise, always so careful to let nothing slip, that when he wouldn't be interrupted, when there was no chance he was being watched, he felt as if his insides erupted with emotion until he couldn't bear the weight of them. He over-analyzed things, thought about them too deeply and too long. He held grudges that he thought would never die, and which overshadowed his every decision.

Death, surely, would have been a kinder fate. Less painful than living. _'Which is probably why I'm not dead,'_ he thought. He stared at the white pouch of herbs lying unassumingly on the top of the desk. _'Useless,'_ he thought in its general direction, his head still aching, though he doubted very much that it had as much to do with his earlier injury than his current train of thought at this point. _'If only there were a poultice that could ease the pains of the heart, _that_ is what I really need,' _he thought bitterly.

He stood, paced around the office with stern, measured steps. The sound of his footsteps tapping out a rhythm on the stone eventually restored his equilibrium. "No," he said aloud to the empty room. "What I really need is to figure out how to deal with Potter, somehow minimize the damage of today's disaster." He unconsciously rubbed his left forearm. "...an impenetrable defense of some kind."

* * *

Malfoy had been making kissy faces for ten minutes. Batting his eyelashes. The Slytherin table was howling in mirth. Harry's hand was clasped so tightly around his fork that his knuckles were bleach white.

Hermoine had said, "just ignore him" as if he should, naturally, be above such petty rivalries. Well, he wasn't. He imagined a number of entertaining scenarios at Malfoy's expense--one involving making his tongue several times its normal size, another involving charming his hair a nice, blinding shade of pink...none of them really satisfied him, but the Slytherin table went suddenly silent as the doors of the Great Hall opened again.

The hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickled. He could somehow _feel_ Snape passing behind him with measured steps. The professor didn't pause, and Harry found himself letting out a quiver of breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Ron and Hermoine exchanged a look. "Stop doing that," Harry snapped at them. "I can _see_ you. I know what you think."

"Harry," Hermoine tried to placate him with a gentle tone. "it's just..."

"You're obsessed," Ron said gracelessly. "We know Snape isn't evil, that he wasn't working for You-know-who, but that doesn't make it your personal obligation to make up for everything anyone's ever done to or said about him. He's still an ass."

"Well, maybe he's an ass because no one's ever given him a chance to be anything else," Harry rebuffed irritably under his breath, stabbing his toast, which he'd by now mauled with his fork but made no real efforts to eat.

Hermoine pursed her lips. Harry steeled himself for what he was sure would be another 'I know better than you so shut up and listen' speech. "Harry," she said, "what is this _really_ about?"

Harry blinked at the question. What _was_ it about? He didn't know if he could possibly articulate half of what he was feeling. "I just...it's just..." he stumbled, grip on his fork finally loosening enough to let blood back into his fingers. How was he supposed to explain even a fraction of what was going through his mind? "...that could have been me, you know?" he said at last. "He...and ...also me..." he stumbled awkwardly over a sentence that didn't want to form. "If things were just a little bit different, maybe I would have turned out to be exactly like Snape."

"You're _nothing_ like Snape," Ron declared as if he couldn't believe a word of what Harry's saying. "You're just tired, mate. The heat's getting to you. It's getting to everyone."

"It's not the heat!" Harry snapped. "It's...it's just..._everything_!" He stood abruptly and stormed out of the Great Hall without having eaten any breakfast, leaving Ron and Hermoine to exchange confused looks. He still wasn't giving them any answers. It seemed as if maybe he didn't know how to explain. "We'll just have to trust Harry," Hermoine said at last. "This is important to him."

"What in the hell is _'this_', anyway?" Ron grumped.

"Sorry, Ron," Hermoine said, glancing at the large doors that Harry had just slammed behind him. "I haven't the foggiest, and for once, I don't think the library is going to help clear it up."

* * *

Severus frowned at the calming draught he was holding. He didn't think he was going to get through this day without it, and wondered if he ought to take it sooner rather than later, just to be safe. No, he didn't need it. He was a grown man and fully capable of controlling his emotions now! But even in the privacy of his own mind it sounded like the blatant lie it was. If his emotions were in control, he wouldn't be pacing his office, glaring at the clock as if he could will time to stop before his next class--the one with Harry Potter in it. He'd actually had a dream last night about slipping Forgetfulness Potion into the water to wipe from existence that horrifying incident at the Quidditch match. And it would have seemed a good idea if he could pick and choose just what a person might forget. He scowled to himself and tucked the vial of calming draught into his pocket. No, he wouldn't take it. He would just keep it on hand...in case of an emergency.

_'Control yourself, Severus. You're a fabulous Occlumens, aren't you? Voldemort never caught on, and Dumbledore always said so. Deep breaths. Okay. Just act as if everything is perfectly normal. Right. Normal. Okay.'_ He stepped out of his office, resigning not to think about how one idiot teenager could so easily unhinge him just by _existing_.

He thought, surely, Potter would be on his best behavior today, since he didn't know how he would react to their first real encounter since the snitch disaster. Clumsy, perhaps, but he doubted the boy would go out of his way to cause trouble. He'd thought wrong. The boy had never been more obnoxious. He was juggling potion ingredients when Snape entered. Badly. A small jar of frog eyes smashed right over Snape's boot when he stopped only long enough to threaten the boy into behaving. He had a suspicion that Harry might have done it on purpose. His potion was letting off the most wretched smell--something between alcohol and rotten eggs, and Snape could tell he wasn't even trying to follow the formula, just throwing whatever he felt like it in the cauldron to see what would happen. He turned his back only for a moment, and heard a yelp. When he spun about again there was a slop of green goo on the side of Draco Malfoy's head and the Weasley boy was looking at Harry like he'd just lost his mind. Granger too, had been leaning over, wide-eyed to hiss something at him.

"Are you _trying_ to get detention?!" Hermoine chastised Harry when Snape crossed to Draco to clean up the mess that Harry had left on his head. A red welt was left behind, and Snape was scrawling out a quick note so Malfoy could go to the infirmary to get it taken care of.

"That's the general idea, yeah," Harry whispered back. But Snape docked Gryffindor 50 points, vanished his potion, and continued the lesson without further ado. Harry looked disappointed. Why was it when you were going out of your way for a detention, you couldn't get one, but when you really wanted to do something, three or four of them came slamming down on you at once?

When the class was leaving, he lingered. Snape had been packing up his own things and didn't notice immediately. That had gone well. Perfectly normal, even. Nothing to worry about, but just as he turned, Harry was standing right in front of him. "Why are you still here, Potter? If it's about that pitiful excuse for a potion, I won't be letting you make it up this time."

"So, you're mad, then," Harry blanketed.

Something in Snape's jaw gave a little twitch. "After your behavior in class today, I should think I don't need to answer that, do I?"

"Not about that," Harry waved it off as if it were nothing. "About the Quidditch thing. You know when I ki--"

Snape didn't let him finish. "I am above such petty grievances," he stated, though they both knew petty grievances seemed to be what kept him going in life.

"Right," Harry answered, smirking a bit. He didn't believe a word of that and they both knew it. "So you're head's alright then?" And he reached up a hand as if to touch the back of Snape's head.

Snape swatted it away before it could get too close, as if it were something vile. "Detention, Potter!" he snapped before he could stop himself. "Tomorrow evening. My office. Do _not_ keep me waiting." He stalked out of the room, muttering curses under his breath. Damn it. He hadn't wanted to do that. Detention meant time spent alone with the boy. And that--he instinctively knew--was very, very bad.

Harry's face broke into a bright grin at his professor's back. "Yes sir," he answered. "Wouldn't dream of it."


	4. Close Quarters

**IV. Close Quarters**

Harry was ten minutes early, but there was no sign of Snape. It was odd, Harry thought, since he didn't seem to care much for leaving his office if food, classes, or appointments weren't involved. Harry couldn't blame him. If the heat got much worse he was going to start sleeping on the dungeon stairs, just to be somewhere cool. The dry heat was unprecedented. The grass on the Quidditch Pitch was starting to brown. If it didn't rain soon...well, sufficed to say everyone needed some reprieve.

He looked around the office, patting some sweat off his brow and took a deep breath. If only the whole castle could feel like this. There was a white poultice sitting on the corner of the desk next to a stack of scrolls that it seemed Snape had stopped halfway through grading. He resisted the temptation to see if his was among them. Any grade Snape gave him was bound to be a bad one, anyway. The table he'd spent his last detention at was there, but pushed against the wall. It didn't seem as if Snape had prepared anything for him yet. Odd, seeing how perpetually prepared the man tended to be with everything.

His eyes wandered. A pinstripe of light flickered toward the middle of the room from behind a bookshelf. Harry moved closer carefully to find it revealed a hidden door. He pushed it open and found Snape's personal quarters on the other side. They were rather simple, warmer than he'd expected--golden firelight danced around the room, making the drab furnishings seem a bit more cheery. There was a small desk with neat rows of beakers and vials on it, a shabby couch pushed up against the wall to his right, and a four-poster bed draped in neutral, faded colors, that he supposed might have been rather elegant when they were new, but had lost any luster with age and lack of care. In the far corner of a the room, a few piles of books were stacked in slight disarray, with the topmost open and upended on the floor next to a few shards of parchment and a quill. Ah, so there it was--Snape's personality. There was always a little hint. The fact that Snape had a desk but still chose to sit hunched on the floor with a pile of books--that said something. It told Harry the man wasn't quite as prim and proper as he'd like everyone to believe.

Harry blinked. Somehow his feet had taken him into the rooms when they shouldn't have. If Snape caught him there would be hell to pay. But this is what he had wanted so badly when he'd egged Snape into giving him detention--another glimpse of the real Snape that hid under layers of bitter cruelty. The quiet, spartan room. Snape really didn't allow himself any luxuries. Harry wondered what the man thought would happen if he had them. Was he that afraid of dropping his guard? Not many personal effects either. Harry supposed he probably didn't own many and had felt no pressing need to acquire them. He could somewhat understand. He didn't have much either. If it didn't fit in his school trunk, it probably wasn't worth keeping.

A loud crash echoed from behind one of the closed doors. A light came from underneath it. The bathroom then, perhaps? If he listened, he could hear running water. He ran over, about to speak, but then thought better of it, pressing his ear against the door.

* * *

Severus groaned and curled in on himself, clutching at the side of his neck. He was beginning to feel like Nagini was going to haunt him for the rest of his days with these sudden jolts of pain, but some part of him knew that wasn't true. He was healing. The fever that had been edging at him since this afternoon was proof of that. But the timing was awful. He had that detention with Potter soon. When was that due for? He didn't have much time, surely. Maybe half an hour, at most. He'd lost track, stayed in the shower longer than he should have.

...and then fell out of it when the wound suddenly seared and the fever dizziness crashed over him anew. A purifying draught and a fever reducer. That's what he needed, or at the very least, his wand, to cast a healing spell that would get him through the next hour or so. His long fingers reached up for the sink to haul himself to his feet and he cursed under his breath. He should be well by now. He was not accustomed to illnesses that held on so long, but if he had to admit it, he should have been taking care of himself better, not letting his temper get the best of him, for starters. He groaned again and sat up, raked his quivering fingers back through his sopping hair, and finally managed to get to his feet and clumsily pull his undergarments on. He took a deep breath, glaring at his reflection as if demanding it get better right this instant.

"Don't give me that look, Severus," the mirror told him sternly. "I'm not the one who's fumbling about in the bathroom when he knows full well he ought to be in bed resting."

He offered the mirror a few choice words in reply, then grasped his head and fell back onto the toilet seat, slumping and willing the dizziness away. The dizziness, apparently, did not much care for taking orders from the likes of him. He released a shuddering breath, shivered. He needed to get dressed or he was going to freeze, and stumbled a bit more. His robes, if he could just get into his robes then he could gain some semblance of normalcy. He took a few more deep breaths and opened the bathroom door.

Harry Potter startled, jumped backwards, and landed on his bum. "I...I...it's not...because...Professor...I just...I heard a crash and..." Harry floundered. Words failed him. Severus Snape was standing in front of him, very nearly sopping wet, in his underwear. He opened his mouth to try to finish his sputtering defense properly, but no sound came out and he closed it again. Snape hadn't moved from the doorway. His fingers were curled tightly around the jam. His entire body seemed flushed. "...er..." There was a long silence. Harry could hear his pulse thundering in his ears. "A-are you alright, Professor? You...don't look quite...well."

Ebon eyes locked onto his emerald ones. He didn't dare blink or move away. But after a moment, there was a slight...sway. Snape's gaze lost it's usual focused intensity. His grip on the door jam loosened.

It was instinct that told Harry to rush forward then. He didn't quite make it to his feet, but on his knees, he barely caught the larger man as he fell forward. It was an awkward position. Really, he'd only managed to save Snape's head and torso from contact wit the hard ground, and the man was larger and heavier than he was. He didn't know how he was supposed to release him without much clunking and thrashing about. "...er...Professor?" Was he even conscious?

"...get your hands off of me, Potter," Snape answered blearily.

Harry almost laughed. Almost. If the situation weren't so...completely bizarre he might have. "Uh, sorry Professor, but...I think I'd better help you get into bed."

"...I do not require..." Snape started to say, but his mind seemed to trail off halfway through whatever bitter retort he was about to spit out.

"Listen, you can dock me as many points and give me as many detentions as you want later, okay? But if you don't lay down, I think I'm going to have to tell Madam Pomfrey."

"You wouldn't dare," Snape grimaced, using Harry's shoulders to force himself back up to a more reasonable position. He got to his knees, but was still uneven and slumped. Everything seemed slightly blurred, like the edges were faded and only what was directly in front of him came into sharp focus. He tried to blink it away. If the idiot boy told Madam Pomfrey, he'd end up in the infirmary again, and god only knows how long it would take him to convince her he was well enough to leave this time when they both knew he hadn't _really_ been well enough to leave the first time.

Harry's rebellious streak kicked in. "Oh yeah? Try me."

Silence was his answer. Snape's fever-fogged brain couldn't come up with anything biting to say, so he'd rather say nothing at all. Why? Wasn't it bad enough that this boy brought out the worst in him without also continually just happening across him when he was at his weakest? There was no justice in the world at all.

"Come on, Professor Snape, you can stand up, can't you?" Harry was trying to tug him to his feet, one arm slung over his shoulders, but Severus Snape was many times larger than he was, a full grown man rather than just barely of age.

"Of course," Snape answered, full of bitter pride. He wavered a bit, but got to his feet. Harry's guiding hand on his spine felt wonderfully cool compared to his heated skin, which, he told himself, is the only reason he was letting it remain there.

Harry brushed Snape's robes to the floor and lowered his professor to the unmade bed. He didn't know why his brain kept reminding him the man was very nearly naked. It was like a scratched CD that gets stuck at one point and just repeats it over and over again. Water droplets from Snape's soaking hair had made a huge wet spot on Harry's shoulder. "Right then, just lay down, sir," he said.

"Don't tell me what to do, Potter." He was being stubborn for stubbornness's sake, and they both knew it. He bent forward, as if seeing if he'd be able to reach his robes from their heap on the floor without standing up.

Harry pushed him back against the bed. Snape's dark eyes widened, grabbing at the nearest object for balance--which happened to be Harry's waist. Harry blushed a bit as he found himself once again hovering a breath over the man. At least he hadn't fallen onto his lips this time. "...er...is there...anything you need? Water, or something?"

Snape gestured vaguely at the small desk full of phials. "Fever Reduction Draught. _Surely_ you know what it looks like?"

Harry looked up at the many colored liquids in the corner of the room. They very nearly sparkled in the firelight. "Uh, it's...blue, isn't it?"

"Nngh. I'll get it myself," Snape grunted as if Harry's answer had been hideously wrong and tried to sit up again.

Harry pushed him back down. "Just tell me what color it is. I'll get it."

"...green," Snape answered blearily. "Emerald, like your eyes. Surely you know what green, looks like."

Harry bit back a sarcastic remark, but only because Snape was so infirmed and stalked over to the desk, picking vials up and swishing them around until he found a small crystal vial filled with a deep green liquid. He hurried back to the bed, where Snape lay, lips slightly parted, breathing deeply, eyes closed. Had he fallen asleep so quickly? Harry found his eyes roaming curiously over his professor's features--sodden hair, slim hips, taut thighs. Harry shook his head, why was he thinking about Professor Snape's shapely thighs? His eyes shot back up, trailing over the pronounced collarbone, hooked--but not wholly unpleasant--nose (in spite of what he often found himself saying about it), brows etched over what he knew were penetrating, liquid black eyes.

Snape's eyes peered open narrowly. His chest rose and fell with his heavy breaths. He could feel eyes on him, but he didn't know what the boy saw. No doubt gloating over the power he held over him now, just like his father would have done. "What are you staring at, Potter?" he snapped.

"I...oh, you _are_ awake..." Harry stumbled. "I...er...I think this is the right one. I...thought, if you were sleeping, maybe I oughtn't wake you and..." He was holding out the vial awkwardly.

Snape forced himself upward and snatched it, downing it in one gulp. The way his head tilted back drew Harry's eyes to the angry red marks on his throat. They still hadn't completely healed. When Snape had called the healing process 'tedious' he hadn't been kidding. Muggle medicine would have had him farther along than this by now. "Do they hurt?" he blurted as Snape lowered himself back to the mattress.

He stared at Harry like he was seeing him for the first time.

"Your wounds, I mean. A-are they painful, Professor?"

The potion taking effect and the pain beginning to ease somehow loosened his tongue. "Sometimes," he answered. That's when he remembered. "Bathroom. There are bandages in the cupboard. Get one for me."

"Y-yes sir."

When he returned, Snape was resting his eyes again, but his breathing had evened and he had managed to pull the sheet over his hips. Harry found himself somehow grateful for that--there was something about the man's figure so blatantly displayed that was highly distracting. But he heard Harry and opened his eyes blearily, holding out his hand for the bandage.

"I'll do it," Harry said. "Even I'm not so 'grossly incompetent' that I can't apply a bandage. Just...stay still, sir."

Snape wanted to protest, he really did, but his eyes drooped. He normally watered down his fever reducer--it lessened the effects somewhat, but at least he could manage to keep himself conscious. Now it was all he could do to roll his head to the side and expose the wound to be covered.

Harry found he had to steady himself as he pushed stray strands of hair from his professor's throat, and applied the bandage as gently as possible while keeping it firmly in place. It had to be uncomfortable, he thought. Snape rolled his head back and stared up at Harry again. There was a strange look in his eyes, not as forbidding as usual, far less guarded. Harry's lips parted, but he found he was holding his breath again. He couldn't bear to look into those eyes too long, and eventually turned away, reaching for the blankets and pulling them neatly up to Snape's chest. "Just...rest, Professor. We can reschedule my detention for a time that's more convenient for you, okay?"

"Why is it, Potter, that you seem so fond of getting detentions, I wonder," Snape stated. The words were out before he could stop them.

"I wouldn't say I'm _fond_ of them..." Harry protested.

"You seemed to take great efforts to get one yesterday."

"Well, I, that's because I wanted to know how mad you were about, you know, the kiss-type thing, from...you know, the match."

"Your continual and extreme efforts to botch your potions and wreak havoc in my classroom, I should think, is more cause for concern."

Harry's hand came to his mouth and he snickered a bit. Snape frowned at him. "I'm sorry!" he said. "It's just...you sort of sounded like Professor McGonagall there."

"..." Snape frowned a bit.

"I just, thought maybe I'd be able to get more out of you about how you're recovering, and stuff, if we were alone."

A bitter little smile crossed Snape's lips. "Well, you certainly got that," he answered dryly.

"Yeah..." A long silence passed. "Are you sure you don't need me to get Madam Pomfrey? Is a fever reduction draught going to be enough?"

"Feverishness is proof that the healing process has finally begun," Snape answered blandly. Stop fidgeting with your sleeve like that."

"I, what, oh." Harry tried to settle his hands.

"Lily used to do that."

Harry's eyes widened. "She did?"

"Occasionally." Snape's eyes were drooping, but he fought to keep them open.

"Uh, sir. About my mother...you..."

Snape pat his hand unconsciously. "I see so much of her in you."

Harry's eyes widened. Snape's lips had curled the barest hint upwards when he said that, but then his eyes fell closed again.

"I...professor?"

Snape didn't answer.

"Sir?"

His head fell to the side and his breathing began to deepen.

_'He just...fell asleep in the middle of a conversation! And after saying something like that! He's so...'_ But Harry wasn't sure what word to use to describe Severus Snape now. It had been an accident, but he thought he learned a bit more about Snape tonight. He just couldn't really put into words what he'd learned, exactly. He thought it would be best if he left while Snape was still asleep and carefully closed the hidden door behind him. His mind raced as he headed back towards Gryffindor Tower. That was the first time Snape had ever compared him to his mother. He compared him to his father a lot, but only the worst aspects of his father. His mother though, Snape had cared deeply for his mother. Harry couldn't reconcile the words with the way Snape treated him. If he'd loved Harry's mother, and he reminded Snape of her, shouldn't he be a _little_ more agreeable? Or maybe it just reminded Snape that the woman he'd loved had died. Or maybe...!

Harry had an epiphany as he caught his reflection in a decorative mirror he'd just passed. He looked like his father, but with his mother's eyes. Maybe, for Snape, Harry was a painful reminder that Lily Evans had loved someone else, and that that someone was James Potter had been a sort of slap in the face, hadn't it?

But he wasn't just James and Lily's son. He was something separate from either of them. He was Harry. If Snape had been dwelling on the past for so long, then wouldn't the present seem like something forbidding and foreign, something frightening? Something to be beaten into submission and eventually destroyed...

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. It was late. He wasn't really all that analytical a guy most of the time. He was probably just trying to make up theories that would make the man more likable. _'Well, his body is sure likable, in any case,'_ he thought, and again his thoughts startled him and his cheeks flushed. He shook his head. "Gah! What am I thinking about?" he yelped.

"Gah! What am I thinking about? is not the password," a drowsy voice said.

He startled, looking up at the portrait. "Oh, I, I'm sorry, uhm, balderdash."

The fat lady's portrait swung open and let him in before going back to sleep.

In the common room, Ron and Hermoine startled and looked up at him.

"Harry! It's so late, we were getting worried," Hermoine said.

"I bet he was absolutely wretched to you after today, wasn't he?" Ron asked.

"I, no, we've got to reschedule it for another day," Harry explained. He felt dazed and disjointed, like someone else was talking out of his mouth. There was just a sort of unreality around him.

"What, then where were you all this time?" Ron insisted.

"I well, in his quarters."

"In his _quarters_?!" both of his friends echoed in shock.

"Shh! It was an accident. He isn't well." He shook his head of his thoughts. He had to explain properly. He knew any second Hermoine would say...

"Harry, you're not making any sense."

Yeah, that's it, she'd gone and said it.

"He said he sees a lot of my mother in me. That I fidget the same way she did, and stuff." He'd blurted it out suddenly, which made it feel all the more real. His chest ached. He hesitated. "Snape, he...he was in love with my mum, did I ever tell you?" He didn't know if he had.

Ron and Hermoine exchanged a look as if neither of them quite knew how they should reply. Eventually Hermoine said, "Harry, you look exhausted. You should get some sleep. You can tell us all about it tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah. Right. Tomorrow. Okay then." Now that she mentioned it, he did feel a bit tired--lethargic, really. Sleep would probably help sort his thoughts.

Ron had to kind of nudge him up the stairs. He was so out of it that he collapsed on the bed without changing out of his robes and fell almost instantly asleep. He dreamed of his mother, of Snape in his underwear at a Quidditch game, and of a number of other things that were highly inappropriate and could not be mentioned in polite company.

When he awoke, his pulse was racing and his throat was dry. "Blast," he muttered under his breath. "Why him?"

It felt unaccountably chilly, considering they'd been in the middle of a heat wave for weeks. He sat up, pushed the bed's curtain aside, and looked out the window. It was finally raining. _'If only the past could be washed away as easily as the heat,'_ Harry thought, finally understanding that what he wanted out of Severus Snape had nothing at all to do with his parents, or how much he resembled either of them.


	5. Passion for Potions

**V. Passion for Potions**

It was four days before Severus Snape emerged from his quarters again. Harry had been nervous and anxious to see him the morning after their most unusual detention, wondering how hateful Snape would be--and sure it would be considerable--but also hoping to see him and know that he was quite alright. But no one saw Snape again for _four _days. He wasn't in the infirmary; Harry had checked. He had half a mind to go down and check his office, his quarters, but any time he thought he might be able to sneak away, he realized what a horrible idea it was. If Snape was really ill, he should just let him rest. But what if, like that night, he couldn't even lift himself enough to get his own potion? What if he needed more made, but couldn't do it himself? What if that bandage had been festering on his wound all this time without being changed? There were a lot of what-if's, not least of which seemed to be 'what if I'm falling in love with him?'

It seemed ludicrous. There was a time the very idea would have made him laugh until he choked. But now? Well, things change. He didn't know if it was love, but there was a dangerous attraction he'd been denying for too long. Now that he saw it for what it was he could barely contain it, and that in itself was immensely depressing. _'Because the one Snape loves is my mom, even now. Probably always.'_ The parts of him that Snape liked, they weren't the parts that were 'Harry', they were the parts that reminded him of Lily. He'd said as much in his fever-induced delirium: _'I see so much of your mother in you._'

Harry sighed. There was an audible gasp. He startled and looked up to find Professor Trelawney's magnified eyes. "Mr. Potter, I sense great suffering about you. Torment."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," Harry muttered. She did like predicting his impending demise. He would rather cut her off before she predicted that he was going to be murdered by his potions professor. "That's me," he said, "One big ball of misery. You're exactly right, Professor."

She looked taken aback. It was so rare that someone told her she was 'right' she didn't seem to know how to take it. Somehow, Harry's fit of depression had earned Gryffindor ten points for 'the bravery to accept the fate the stars have laid out for you' or some such nonsense. He wouldn't complain. As many as he'd lost to Snape these past weeks it was oddly comforting to know he'd earned a few of them back, even if Professor Trelawney was still a deluded old bat if she thought she could really see the future.

* * *

Soon afterwards, he and Ron headed out of the tower and towards the Great Hall. Harry was so downtrodden he didn't even notice Snape walking in the opposite direction until he heard, "...Potter."

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. Snape was staring down his nose at him with his usual air of superiority. "Ah, sir, hello!" he blurted.

He'd been about to add 'are you feeling well?' but Snape's words cut him off. "Your detention will be rescheduled for this evening at seven. I expect you to be punctual, as always."

He strode of, leaving Harry standing slack-jawed. Had Snape just admitted that Harry was 'punctual'? But more than that, what was that detention going to entail? Just how much of that night did Snape remember? "Ah, yes sir!" Harry blurted like he was in boot camp, already feeling humiliated by his startled tone.

Ron gave him a look. "Awfully jumpy lately, aren't you?"

"I, well...it's hard to predict his moods, you know?"

"Not really. Seems to me like his mood is just plain sour, all the time."

"Well...some days are better than others, though."

"You're still thinking about what he said about your mum. It's _Snape_ we're talking about here."

"I know," Harry snipped. "You don't have to remind me." Ron just didn't understand! There was more to Severus Snape than being a sullen bastard, or a greasy git as Sirius had always called him. A lot more. He just didn't want anyone to see it. What was in his heart and, the things he thought about when he was alone, and...all the other things that you had to know a person, _really_ know them, to understand. The subtleties. ...subtlety. Harry nearly laughed at himself. Snape had always said he had no 'subtlety'. Maybe that was true, but, he could learn to appreciate the subtle things, couldn't he? In someone else...if they were worth it. _'Who am I trying to kid?'_ he thought. _'Even if I know how I feel, that feeling's never going to be mutual. Even if he learns to like me a little, it'll only be the parts of me that remind him of my mum.'_ It wasn't good enough. What he wanted wasn't to be a replacement. First his father, now his mother. For a moment, in a fit of temper, Harry once thought that Severus Snape saw him for who he was. He knew better now. Snape was too trapped in the past to ever _really_ look at what was right in front of him.

* * *

The last two times Harry pushed open this dungeon door, things had gone terribly wrong. Perhaps that is why he hesitated tonight. He steeled himself and eased it open. When he did, he let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Again.

Severus Snape was standing by that side table, setting up a row of potion vials. Several colors twinkled in the light of the wall torches. His posture was good, Harry thought, better than it had seemed in quite some time. He seemed less tense. Harry watched the slender fingers arrange the bottles so they were all pointing in the same direction in their metal rack, obsessively perfect.

"...er, Professor...?" he didn't know why he was so clumsy with words anymore. No, he knew. It was because he _knew_. The reasons his pulse always raced around Snape no longer had very much to do with righteous anger.

Snape raised a hand to silence him and Harry found himself instantly clamming up. "To get the matter out of the way in advance," Severus said, "Yes, my fever has broken. Yes, I have been taking care of myself. Yes, Nagini's bites still hurt at times, but they are healing well and I expect to be able to leave them to the open air by the middle of next week at the absolute latest. Now, unless you have other questions, Potter, take a seat at the table."

Harry flushed, having run out of anything to immediately ask. Snape hadn't answered how much he remembered of the last time they'd been alone together, but he hadn't really given him much of an opening to ask about it. He felt hypersensitive to the man's presence, even though Snape seemed to be doing his best to act as if nothing out of the ordinary had particularly happened between them.

"Now," Snape continued, placing parchment and quill in front of Harry. "Since you proved your ineptitude when last we met, by not even having the ability to identify a simple fever reducer, you will have the next quarter of an hour to identify for me the twenty potions I've placed on the table. As you can see, the phials are numbered. Write the number of the phial, and the potion, or poison, that it contains. How you do will determine how we spend the rest of this detention."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Snape flipped a small hourglass and said, "Begin," before he had the chance. He started scribbling away his answers. The third was the same fever reducing draught that he had given to Snape last time, so that was easy, and the minty green was obviously the purifying draught they'd learned not too long before. He identified the calming draught easily, and was a bit less certain about the elixir to induce euphoria, but was pretty sure about it. Veritaserum, that was another that he was familiar with on all too personal a level. Most of the answers, when his time was up, he was fairly confident of. Snape's vague hint that some were poisons had helped, but a few...well, he just hoped he hadn't missed anything too obvious lest Snape try to terrorize him. He no longer cared about this tendency. He knew that Snape had spent so much of his life feeling small that it was some kind of defense to keep people from getting close enough to make him feel that way again. He didn't know why it had taken so long for him to notice. Once he did, it seemed obvious.

He sat tensely as his Potions Professor marked the page off with stern, red ink. Snape's hand stopped, hovering over one of the questions Harry was fairly certain he'd gotten wrong. His lips pursed. "Draught of Peace, Potter?" he said at last. "If you don't know an answer, I'd rather you didn't just scratch out the first potion that comes to mind." He put his quill down and Harry tried to fight a blush, but the blush was winning.

"So, uh, not even close, huh?" Harry asked as Severus got up and moved toward the table, lifting phial #12.

"Hardly," Snape answered blandly. "Well then, perhaps with a little_ experience_ you'll be able to identify it properly."

Harry blanched. Snape was going to make him take some unknown potion? Or poison? What exactly was in that phial? Certainly nothing that would be too damaging, nothing that he didn't have an antidote ready for. "But...sir..."

"Relax, Potter. It won't kill you." He pulled out the cap. "The only way you ever seem to learn anything is from first-hand experience, so may as well give you some. We have covered this in class, if you'd deigned to pay attention on that day you might not be having trouble with it now."

Harry swallowed a lump in his throat. "But...Professor Snape..." he hedged.

Snape pressed the open phial into his hand. "A small sip will suffice. That should be enough for you to determine what it is by how your body reacts to it, hm?" He gestured for Harry to hurry and drink.

Snape remembered. He must. He was trying to humiliate Harry somehow, the Gryffindor was certain of it. Bully him into never speaking of their last encounter to anyone without saying so. Harry felt a lump in his throat. He wasn't afraid of Snape, and he didn't generally take bullying. He stared back aggressively. He would accept the challenge. He was no coward. But...this aspect of Snape is what made him curse his...apparently very unique...tastes. Why did it have to be someone who went out of his way to make Harry suffer? Someone so...

He cut off his line of thought, recklessly tilting up the bottle, and taking...a rather larger swig than he should have.

"Potter, not that much!" Snape declared, but too late, the whole contents of the bottle had already disappeared down Harry's throat. Heat coiled in his stomach and spread out in wispy tendrils to his chest, his fingers and toes. He felt a smug satisfaction at the minor panic in his potions professor's eyes.

"So, even you can wear such a cute expression," he said before his brain caught up with his mouth.

"Excuse me?!" Snape said, looking accosted.

"Don't complain now. You brought this on yourself, didn't you?" Harry could barely keep track of what he was saying. He felt heated, reckless, like no matter what he said or did, the circumstances of those actions would be irrelevant until much, much later. It wasn't like Felix Felicis, where he knew nothing he did could have ill effects. What he felt was more like a complete disregard for the consequences of his actions.

"Always so defensive. Built your walls up so high so no one could get to you. Make your plans, but they don't always work out, do they? Don't always go the way you thought they would. And it makes you furious when you think you've lost control of a situation."

"You, shouldn't have taken so much. You won't be able to think clearly in this condition," Snape said, fumbling into his desk for the antidote. No, this isn't how it should have gone. When he saw what he'd missed, some part of Snape had known it was a bad idea, but he felt like Harry might accidentally admit to some small offense or other, something he could use against the boy if he needed it, and what was the worst that could happen? But this...that cocky smirk. The way the boy was trying to expose his weaknesses right off the bat. No, this couldn't be allowed to continue.

He startled when he felt the boy behind him, wrapping his arms around his midsection. When had he gotten up. "Unhand me!" he heard his voice squeak a little and was disconcerted by his changed tone, trying to get his voice back to normal, his pulse steady, but Harry's breath cascaded over his earlobe and he barely repressed a shudder.

"But I affect you, don't I, Professor? I've always affected you. Maybe not in the way I'd like, but you still can't help but take notice of me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Snape denied, but they both knew it was a blatant lie.

"When you compared me to my mother the other day, I was happy. You'd finally compared me to something you'd loved, rather than something you'd hated."

"Potter, let go of me. I need to give you the antidote," he tried to struggle free of Harry's grip, but just as he managed to break free and turn around when Harry wrapped his arms around him again.

Snape tensed.

"You're always so guarded. It's nice to see even you can get flustered like this," Harry continued. "I want to see you make all kinds of expressions. It'd be great, if I could be the one to pull them out of you."

What was this? He hadn't expected this. Snape's pulse was thundering in his throat, as if trying to escape. Harry's hand came up to caress his cheek. He swatted it away, but it came right back. He swatted it away again. "Stop that. Let go of me and take the antidote." He held the pale gold liquid up. "The whole of it, I should think, is for the best."

"And if I refuse?" Harry quipped. "What will you do then?"

"I will have to force you."

"Oo," Harry smirked. "Sounds kinky. Are you going to be half-naked again? I'd rather like that."

Snape found his face turning red up to the ears. "What did you just say to me?!"

"That you can force me to do whatever you want," Harry answered. "If you're naked for it."

"Mr. Potter, that is _quite_ enough!" Severus pushed back against Harry's shoulders.

"Oh fine. I'll take your silly antidote...if you kiss me first."

"_Excuse me_?"

"I know," Harry's mood seemed to shift rather quickly. "If anything, I'm only a replacement for you. I know my mum is the one you loved. If it makes you feel better to pretend that I'm her, then I don't mind, as long as you don't say her name. I have her eyes, right? So it should be easy." Harry couldn't even quite register what he was saying. The words were flooding out of him like someone had punctured a hole in his chest and all of his desire was just spilling out of it. All his worries, too. He somehow knew, in the back of his mind, that he'd already said too much, that if he said more, Snape would probably never speak to him again. He felt feverish, but he also felt somehow, as if he could just get some kind of affection from Snape, even if it was pitying and half-assed, that all would be right with the world.

Snape finally struggled free and forced Harry down into his chair. He had to plant his knee on the joint of Harry's pelvis to keep him from getting up again, and very nearly yelped in horror when he felt a strong hand on his bottom.

"You are _yourself_, Harry Potter. No one else. Now take the damned antidote and come back to your senses, idiot boy." He forced Harry's mouth open and poured the bottle of cool liquid down his throat.

_'You are yourself, Harry Potter. No one else.'_ Something about those words as Snape said them and called him an idiot echoed through his psyche as the world filtered back to normalcy. Harry's face reddened brightly and he realized all the things he'd just said to the Potions Master. "I...er...uhm..."

Snape got off of him and dusted himself off, fixing his rumpled robes.

"...that is to say..." Harry stumbled a bit more.

"You may go, Mr. Potter," Snape stated coldly, as if his tone could somehow will Harry out of his presence.

"Professor, what...was that potion?"

"Wasn't that my question to you?" Snape snipped back.

"I...uhm...Amorentia?" he asked. "Or...some kind of love potion?" His cheeks were bright when he said this, praying he would be so lucky as to have something to blame his uncharacteristic words on.

"Hardly," Snape answered blandly. He didn't seem to want to tell Harry what he'd just ingested. It would be...far kinder to both of them if he didn't know. "You will feel edgy for a few hours. I suggest a good night's rest. In the morning you should be fine. That was...rather more than a dose, you ingested. I didn't dilute it to keep the color true. A worthless effort. You still haven't the faintest idea what it was."

"Then _tell _me. What was that potion, Professor Snape? You thought I might learn something, right? So..."

Snape sighed a bit, not bothering to look at Harry. He busied himself tidying up instead. "It is called Heartshorne," he said at last. "Under its influence, it is...quite difficult to keep matters of the heart to oneself."

"Quite difficult to..." Harry echoed, letting the words sink in. His face flushed. He had a vague memory of Hermoine mentioning it when she saw it on the syllabus. It was a potion that exposed a person's concerns, their desires. It wasn't a truth serum, really, there was no telling what you might spew out under the effects of heartshorne. She'd called it 'a rather humiliating potion, for the most part. You tend to reveal your personal feelings without concern for yourself or others, or so I've read.' Which meant, Harry realized, that Snape knew all of what Harry had just said was brutally true. His face flushed to a ridiculous shade of red and he ran from the office, barreled out of the dungeons, and once back at Gryffindor Tower plowed straight up to bed, refusing to acknowledge anyone for the rest of the night. How humiliating! How could Snape do that to him! He felt like he might cry, but his battered pride couldn't stand the thought of caving any further.

He hardly slept that night. His mind went over the events. No, Snape hadn't done it to him. It was the answer he, himself had gotten wrong because he'd been too busy trying to get detention to pay attention to the lecture that day. Snape had paused when he'd seen it. But had Snape known he would get it wrong? If he'd gotten something else wrong, would he have chosen that instead. And Snape HAD told him only to take a 'small sip' not chug the whole bottle like he did. He couldn't keep blaming Snape for everything. But even if he tried to convince himself it wasn't Snape's fault this had happened, he still didn't know how he could ever face the man again, after all the things he'd said, all the things Snape now knew--like how he felt about him. He'd come onto Snape so brazenly. Tried to expose him, tried to get some response out of him. What exactly had he been hoping would happen? That potion didn't let him think about anything but the present. Humiliating? No. Mortifying? Not quite. Devastating. Yes, that's the word he was looking for. A mere few moments under it's effects and Harry felt as if his heart had been torn from his chest and tossed to the floor. Someone had danced an exuberant jig on it, and then slammed it back into his chest on the end of a battering ram.

The next day, he pretended to have a bad cold so he didn't have to leave his four-poster and risk running into the man who had wreaked such havoc on his emotions. If only he could be angry at Snape for it. He knew he should be furious. But when he remembered how much he'd made Snape struggle to get him to take the antidote before he said anything too damaging, all the rage just seeped right out of him. If he could just go back to hating Snape, maybe he wouldn't have to feel like he understood how the older man must have felt about his mother. Hate would be so much _easier_ than love.


	6. The Pensieve Revisited

**VI. The Pensieve Revisited**

Harry could only stay in bed but so long. Ron and Hermoine had deduced something had happened in detention with Snape, but when they tried to ask he shot them down before they got through the question. If he didn't think about it, kept himself busy with other things, he'd manage. He'd humiliated himself, but it wasn't the first time and it certainly wouldn't be the last. He'd been dreading their next Potions class for two days, and used the Marauder's Map religiously to avoid running into Snape in the halls. His stomach churned, chest ached, and his appetite was practically non-existent. He knew his friends were worried, but he didn't give them opportunities to ask. Every time he thought they might, he quickly brought up a safe topic: Quidditch, their Charms homework, Hagrid--anything he could think of that was as far from the topic of Snape as he could get.

He kept imaging the disgusted look Snape would give him when they inevitably came into contact again. He dreaded it. Right when they were making a bit of awkward headway something like this just _had to_ happen_. ..._and he still dreamed of Snape. He dreamed of the man wrapping his arms around him, of his pale skin bared before him. Of all the same things he'd dreamed of before, but when he woke up and realized it was nothing more than a dream it was a more savage blow than it used to be.

It's not as if he didn't know that Severus Snape's heart belonged to one person only, and that that person wasn't him. But as long as the man didn't know how he felt, he somehow imagined it wouldn't be so bad, sneaking glimpses of him, maybe looking forward to the occasional detention, if only because it was hours of time they'd be alone together. He knew it was a bizarre, twisted way of thinking. He didn't care. He shook his head and steeled himself. He couldn't delay any longer. He was already going to be late for class.

When he strolled in, trying to act normally, Snape simply said "nice of you to join us, Mr. Potter," without turning around from where he was spelling instructions onto the board. Harry fumbled his ingredients and had to endure Malfoy's snide remarks as he picked them up and took his seat.

"...sorry I'm late, Professor," he said, but his words were barely audible.

Snape ignored him. It was normal behavior for Snape, but somehow Harry couldn't help feeling it was personal. "Today we will be working on a Draught of Peace. We have tried it before, with horrific results, as I am certain some of you will recall. Today we will make another attempt, hopefully much improved. Although," Snape amended, turning to glance around the room. "_Some_ of you, I am already aware, are quite hopeless. It will take the entire class to complete, so I suggest you begin immediately. And...Mr. Longbottom, do try not to make anything explode, if you'd be so kind. Mr. Filch only just refinished the desktops, and I think he would be rather disenchanted to find you'd destroyed one so soon."

Neville blushed as Snape took his seat. Normally, Harry would stand up for him, but he just couldn't bring himself to open his mouth and risk humiliating himself further. He focused on his ingredients, trying desperately to ignore a certain blond-haired bastard still making clumsy gestures and laughing at the next table over.

"Mr. Malfoy," Snape said suddenly. "I know how adept you are at potions, but I would appreciate silence, to keep distractions for the other students to a minimum, if you would be so kind."

Draco's mouth fell in shock. Harry's too. Snape had _never_ scolded Malfoy for anything. Ever. Sure, he'd done it politely this time, but Harry wondered if Snape knew Malfoy was picking on him. He didn't want to think of Snape coming to his defense just because he took pity on him or something, but, well, he had to admit seeing Draco Malfoy speechless _had_ improved his sour mood. He smirked very slightly.

Halfway through class, some potions were already exploding, but Harry was concentrating hard, making damn sure not to miss a single instruction this time, trying to read them over two or three times to be sure. He wasn't sure he got the stirring quite right, but the fact that his potion hadn't combusted by the time class was over, he thought, was a good sign. He brought his sample up with Ron and Hermoine. Snape lifted it, inspecting the vial and before he got more than two steps away. "Potter, I require a word with you."

Harry tensed. Oh, here it came. He told Ron and Hermoine that he would catch up later. Snape didn't say anything until the last student left, making a show of inspecting Harry's phial carefully. When they were alone, he put it down, saying, "Passable, in any case."

Harry blinked and Severus gestured for him to take a seat before lifting Hermoine's potion and handing it to him. "Professor?" Harry asked.

"Drink it," Snape said. "It will help."

Harry blinked again.

"In this particular case, the whole phial is probably not uncalled for."

Something clicked in Harry's brain. "Did you...today's lesson...was that, because of me?" His cheeks turned a pleasant shade of pink.

"Drink," Snape repeated. "She's an insufferable know it all, but Granger does good work. I will give her that much."

Harry uncapped it and downed the liquid, making a mental note to share the compliment with Hermoine later--she deserved it. It had a slightly bitter taste, but he almost instantly felt the tension ease out of his back and shoulders. He felt almost instantly calmer. Sitting across from Snape no longer felt like cause for a nervous breakdown.

"Now," Snape said, taking back the empty flask. "In regard to our last meeting."

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," he stated. "At your age, such...impulses...are perfectly normal. I'll admit a measure of surprise, but you needn't worry yourself over it. I am quite willing to put the whole episode behind us as if it never happened. It was simply bad luck that that particular potion is the one you got wrong. I was rather expecting you to confuse Forgetfulness Potion with Aging Potion again."

Snape was trying to give him the easy out. Harry couldn't help but gape in amazement at the man. But then, he supposed that Snape knew what it was like to be humiliated over an unrequited love. The draught of Peace kept him from getting too worked up, and he was glad for that, though his chest ached painfully at being rather firmly let down. What had he expected to happen, really? There were a number of reasons it could never work--not least of which was that Snape was Harry's teacher, old enough to be his father, and had been deeply in love with his mother for twenty years. That was only the beginning of the list. He managed to say at last, "thank you for being so understanding, sir."

Snape gave a curt nod, which Harry took as his permission to leave. He got about two feet before Snape spoke again. "...Potter."

"Yes sir?"

"...I know potions is not your...strongest subject. If you require further instruction to supplement the course of study...you know where to find me."

* * *

Snape didn't know why he'd made the offer. He didn't know why he'd just given Harry free reign to pop into his office whenever he wanted, with a ready-made excuse. The words had just spilled out, and he thought maybe he could do with a draught of peace as well now that he'd said it.

Harry's cheeks colored faintly. He didn't dare turn around and let Snape see it. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the offer, and the potion he'd taken was preventing him from freaking out about it properly for the time being. "...thank you, sir," he said at last. "Ah, right then. I'll be late for divination if I don't hurry."

"Of course," Snape said. "You are excused."

When the door closed behind him, Severus dropped his face into his palms. _'What was _that _just now_?' he asked himself. _'This boy...is making a fool out of me.'_

He had to admit, if only to himself, that he didn't know how to react to Harry after his accidental confession of...what? Lust, he supposed? It had been flattering, but also altogether terrifying, the way Harry had reacted to the Heartshorne potion. He wished he could see in the mirror what the boy seemed to see, but no matter how he turned, he didn't seem to have a single appealing angle. His nose was too prominent, his skin ghostly, his hair impossible. And he was definitely no longer young. He shook his head. No, he'd been over all of this before and it was irrelevant. Harry was just trying so hard to become friendly with him that he was seeing all kinds of things that weren't there. It wouldn't be long before his attentions were diverted to another, more appropriate target.

It had though, Severus supposed, been a welcome favor when Harry pretended to have the flu. It gave him time to clear his thoughts, find the right wording that would let them both off of the hook. He thought now that he'd managed it. The only problem to overcome now were the roiling emotions within his own heart.

He was twisted, certainly. So much time at Voldemort's side had somehow made him grossly warped and emotionally handicapped. He would always love Lily, he knew that, but it was a pain that he found had been dulling in recent years. He would always hate James, but Harry was not James. He was arrogant at times, yes, and incredibly stubborn, but he was far gentler than James. Almost sweet, really, when he wanted to be. Snape shook his head. No, he mustn't go there again. Such thoughts were unforgivable. The way his pulse had raced when Harry had wrapped around him...that was only because it had been so long since _anyone_ had touched him, nothing more.

He had very nearly convinced himself of these things. That Harry Potter had infested every corner of his mind was only because the boy was constantly present. That he had been dreaming of him periodically ever since their Occlumency lessons, meaningless. That his dreams were full of the boy ever since that horrifying Quidditch incident...coincidental. And that his pulse raced and his mouth went dry whenever he laid eyes on Harry, that he was shaping lessons now, around what he thought the boy would most need and inviting him to stop by his office whenever he so pleased...

...well, _that_ was a problem. A problem for which no immediate solution came to mind, and one, he thought, that could very well be his undoing. _'Damn him. Damn his tousled hair, those gorgeous eyes, damn his quizzical expressions, his pouty lips, his stupid grins, and damn his taut little arse too.'_ Severus was convinced. Harry Potter had been some kind of clever plot--no doubt James's doing--to gradually drive him insane. It was completely illogical, he knew, but if he could blame James for everything, then he didn't have to admit the heart he'd so carefully barricaded from the world was about to break free of its chains if he didn't do something to prevent it.

He blinked at the dimly lit office. He didn't know what time it was or when he'd made it from his classroom to here. He'd been so lost in thought since this morning. He vaguely remembered attending lunch, making a wry comment about Hagrid's more oafish habits. He vaguely remembered the half-giant still giving him the silent treatment at dinner, too. But what he'd eaten, how long it had taken, the number of footsteps between one place and the next--these things had been a complete blur.

He stared down at the pensieve on his desk. Dumbledore had loaned it to him. Said he looked like he needed to clear his head. He couldn't deny that the man was right. Memories swirled in its surface, but he couldn't remember what he'd put in there. Recent things, he was sure. He would look at them later, see if he could make heads or tails of his own mind with a third person view of it all. For now, he thought, a shower. A good, hot shower always forced the world to make a little more sense. He got up and headed into his quarters.

* * *

Harry didn't remember making a conscious decision to head to Severus Snape's office. He didn't remember making any decisions at all. His mind had been going over their brief conversation all afternoon. Harry's feelings had been chocked up to teenage libido, but he wasn't sure if Snape was only saying that to give them a convenient excuse to brush off the effects of the Heartshorne potion or if he actually believed it. And to then invite Harry to stop by his office whenever he wanted, providing another convenient excuse of additional help in potions...what exactly was the man playing at? He had half a mind to ask, and, somehow, found himself staring angrily at Snape's office door. _'How dare he brush off my feelings like that, like they're just some idiotic crush or some passing physical attraction that will move onto someone else any moment! How dare he presume there's nothing about him worth pursuing and that, that I'm so fickle that even under a potion like that my feelings, however poorly expressed, can just be...I won't be brushed off like that!'_

The flare of temper had been so sudden that he didn't realize how he'd pounded on the door. There was no answer. His temper reduced itself to a simmer. "...Professor?" Still no answer. Now it cooled, and a minor panic took its place. The last time Snape wasn't in his office his health had turned sour. Harry burst in the door. The bookcase was cracked open again, and if he listened carefully he could hear running water. He swallowed a lump that quickly formed in his throat at the image his mind readily conjured of a sopping wet Severus Snape, scantily clad--or better yet, not clad at all. There was only one part of the man he had to leave to his imagination...one of the more important ones, mind.

He shook his head of that particular train of thought, and that's when he noticed the pensieve. Oh, this pensieve had gotten him into loads of trouble over the years, but he still had a soft spot for it. It had taught him so many things. He could remember seeing Severus Snape as a boy, neglected, all but abandoned, so like himself in so many ways. Severus Snape being tormented by his father, befriended by his mother...so many things about the man he wouldn't have known. And there were thoughts swirling in it now too.

No. He couldn't. That was too risky. Did Snape take long showers, he wondered? How long had he been in there? He really shouldn't...but his wand was already poking the substance within, though he couldn't recall pulling it out. He could still hear the water running. _'Hell...maybe...just a quick peek.'_

He leaned over and soon found himself swirling into the past. It wasn't the distant past he was accustomed to. It was the most unusual sensation, really, watching himself standing in front of Professor Snape's desk, looking more than a little befuddled. "I can see that, Potter," Snape was saying. "You may go."

_'Ah,'_ Harry realized. _'This was that time. The detention when he called me 'Harry'._ Odd, he thought, that that was around where his own feelings probably started to coil in odd knots that he didn't quite understand as he should.

The other Harry left the room. Snape let out a long sigh and loosened the collar of his robes, hissing slightly. Harry saw as he removed them, the bandages on the side of his neck were stained a dark brown. Snape touched it, and rubbed his fingers together. It was wet. He stripped to the waist and removed the bandages, poured an ample amount of purifying draft on very open wounds, and collapsed back into his seat, brow knit with pain. His hands shook. "Incorrigible brat," he groaned. "As nosy as his mother ever was." A slight smirk pulled at his lips, but it was quickly followed by a grimace, features paling. He straightened up, but not with his usual elegance, and reached for more clean bandages.

Harry made his way around to stand behind him, get a better view of the angry wound, and saw a glistening sweat on Snape's brow he hadn't noticed when he was doing his detention. The wastebasket under the desk was full of stained bandages like the ones he'd just tossed into it. There was hardly anything else there. A note on the Professor's desk had a list of 'to do's in regaining his health, and from what Harry could tell, Severus hadn't done most of them. No doubt a nagging little aside from Madam Pomfrey. One item on the list was _'avoid unnecessary aggravation!!'_ Harry had a feeling he had probably been cause for a good deal of that on the day in question.

Snape was holding a patch of gauze to the wound, patting away excess blood and liquid until the bleeding slowed to nearly a stop and wrapped new bandages around his neck. "That boy is going to be the death of me yet," he muttered in annoyance, looking at the purifying draught Harry had made. "Once in a while, he does something right, I suppose, but he has the attention span of a gnat." He poured the draft into a vial and corked it, opening a desk drawer where it joined many similar vials. Half of them were empty, but Harry had a feeling the potion in all of those had been the same too.

The scene went dark and another faded in. He was in Snape's quarters now. Someone's shadow crossed the potion master's prone form on the bed. He turned to look and found it was Professor McGonagall.

Snape's eyes opened slowly. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and weary. "If you've come to give me another lecture, then get out, Minerva," he said. "I'm in no mood."

"And no condition either, apparently," Professor McGonagall told him sternly.

He forced himself to sit up, the blankets falling so his torso was bare in the firelight. Harry smirked as he found the ever-proper head of Gryffindor House find the bed linens particularly interesting. He imagined she hadn't laid eyes on a half naked man in quite some time.

"Touche," Severus answered. "Are we finished now?"

"Not quite. I rather think you should return to the infirmary. You're being too stubborn, exerting yourself too much."

"If you're going to quote Poppy at me, you might as well have sent her to nag me herself."

McGonagall locked his gaze sternly. "I assure you, that can be arranged."

Snape seemed to deflate a bit at the thought. "You know as well as I do that there's nothing further she can do for me. Either the purifying drafts will eventually get the better of the venom, or they won't. Lying about isn't going to increase my chances. Teaching lessons isn't going to worsen them," he snipped irritably.

Harry's hand came to his mouth. The way Snape had said that...well, it was nothing like what he'd been telling Harry--that he would be fine.

"Lying about, as you say," Minerva McGonagall added tersely. "Will at the very least ease your pain."

"I can take a little pain," Snape answered.

"Obviously," McGonagall replied, and it seemed to Harry she was teasing him a bit, trying her hand at his usual sarcastic tone. Snape seemed to think so too. He laid back against the mattress with a pronounced flop and said, "Get out, Minerva. I'm resting."

"Yes, resting indeed. You'll have to forgive me, sulking and resting often look so similar the way you wear them."

Snape didn't answer her.

"Severus," McGonagall said dourly, "is there any improvement?"

"I've had to take a fever reducer last night," Snape answered.

"Ah, that's wonderful!" McGonagall said. "That's a good sign. I will let Poppy know."

"It's none of her concern," Snape snapped.

"She is your physician," McGonagall stated in the tone she always used when she was exerting her authority.

"She is a nuisance. I am fully capable of treating my own illnesses."

Harry chortled a bit. _'Yeah,'_ he thought. _'And you were doing so well with that when I found you.'_

Minerva McGonagall sighed. "If I catch you out of bed before your fever breaks, it's St. Mungo's with you, Severus Snape, am I understood?"

Snape answered with a slight grunt of annoyance, but Harry knew that Snape was not seen after this for half a week.

The scene yielded to another yet again. Harry blushed when he saw which it was. He'd just downed the entire bottle of Heartshorne Potion and had almost immediately started antagonizing Snape. Telling him how much he understood him, and then, very nearly jumping him. His face turned red. It had been embarrassing doing it, but watching it had to be even worse. But he did see a few things from the outside looking in he didn't notice the first time around.

Snape had jumped at first contact, his face had--very briefly--flushed when Harry's breath cascaded over his ear. He managed to overcome these instinctive reactions quickly, but they were still there. They'd still happened.

He couldn't help but feel mortified all over again as Snape struggled with him, trying to pry him off to get the antidote, but there were a number of subtle emotions charging Snape's eyes he hadn't noticed. There were subtle quirks of the mouth that told him how his words were affecting his Professor. Snape blushed when Harry told him 'kiss me', and when Lily was mentioned, Snape's expression deadened and his posture tensed.

After some floundering from both of them, they reached the crux of the incident. Harry inexplicably found his pulse racing, as if he would see now what was so crucial to Snape about what had happened.

_"You are yourself, Harry Potter. No one else. Now take the damned antidote and come back to your senses, idiot boy." _Snape was saying as he forced Harry's mouth open and poured the bottle of cool liquid down his throat.

Harry's cheeks had briefly cooled, but heated anew. Those words cut right to the core of him 'you are yourself...no one else'. Had Snape intended to say the very thing he knew would affect Harry most severely, or had it just been a lucky accident? Harry still had no idea.

He watched himself leaving and forced his attention back on Snape. The man let out a shuddering breath once the door closed and drooped, palms on the desk as if he couldn't stand properly, as if his legs had somehow turned to jelly. Wait, no, that couldn't be right. That made it sound as if he'd had a real effect on Snape in those few minutes that the potion had consumed him. He kept watching rather carefully.

Snape's left hand twitched, clasped and unclasped. He moaned. "Fool boy," he grunted, and seemed barely able to collect himself.

_'Was he? Did I?'_ Harry's mind raced. _'No, no way. He can't be turned on. I only...'_

But Snape's expression changed to one of severe annoyance and he stalked to his quarters, slamming the door behind him. Harry hurried to follow, his throat going dry.

"A shower," Snape said to himself. "A nice, long shower will ease my nerves." He dropped his cloak onto the bed and slipped out of his outer robes. "...and hopefully a few other things."

Harry shouldn't be watching, he knew he shouldn't. This was getting really personal. And he was about to force himself out of the memory, out of the pensieve, but then Snape went and took his shirt off, revealing his pale back and Harry was lost. _'Well, maybe just a little more. I mean, I've already seen him nearly naked. He might say something important while he still has some clothes on.'_

But Snape was stepping out of his pants as he made his way across the room, leaving them behind on the floor, then into the bathroom. Harry very nearly followed, but stopped outside the door, biting his lip. No, that was going too far. He couldn't...but he was in the bathroom then--it was Snape's memory after all. He turned quickly away. _'Don't look. Don't look. I should go..' _He could hear the water running behind him and tried to keep his thoughts from venturing too far into imagining what the older man must look like with the steaming water cascading over him.

He shifted awkwardly, his pants growing rather uncomfortable. He should go. He should really, _really _go, but he could hear Snape behind him rasping out the words, "I can't."

Harry swallowed a lump in his throat. Merlin, that voice should be illegal.

Snape spoke again. "He's Lily's _son_ for pity's sake. You're old enough to be his father." He let out a shuddering breath. Harry found himself doing the same. "And he's only mistaking pity for attraction. At his age, it's easy to get confused."

"I am not!" Harry demanded, but of course Snape couldn't hear him. It was so hard not to turn around and look. Oh he _so_ wanted to look. It took all of his restraint to control himself. Snape would never forgive him.

"Ngh...ugh..." Snape grunted. "Harry...oooh...Harry!"

_'Oh god. He's...Leave. I need to leave. Oh god...' _But the sound of Snape panting and grunting behind him had him rooted in place. "Harry..." The sound of the water, and that voice...

...but there was a long pause before Snape had anything else to say. Harry could hear the man rasping for breath.

"Shameful," Snape muttered eventually. "No better than some dirty old pervert. I have to be clear with him. Succinct. He'll move on quickly and I...I will go back to the way things were before he started trying to make me lose my mind."

Harry couldn't resist any longer. It was amazing he lasted as long as he did. He had to turn, had to see Snape now. What kind of expression was he wearing? But just as he began to turn, he was jerked viciously from the memory and thrown to the floor.

Severus looked murderous. "You have a _very_ bad habit, Mr. Potter!"

"So do you!" Harry snapped thoughtlessly. "Leaving your personal thoughts out and about where anyone can see them." His breath was a bit harsh. The man in front of him, fully dressed, but his hair was wet, making what Harry had just seen in the pensieve far more immediate. It was a difficult memory to shake.

"You call breaking into my office and rummaging around while I am indisposed, 'leaving things where anyone can see them?!' " Snape was livid. He hadn't been sure exactly what he'd put in the pensieve, but he had his suspicions and all of them were bad. However much Harry had seen was definitely far more than he should have.

Harry hadn't seen him this angry since their Occlumency lessons. "Severus, please," Harry started to say, only catching what he'd dared to call the older man after the words had slipped. He plowed recklessly forward. It was too late now anyway. "It's only because their _your _memories. I know I shouldn't have but I wouldn't have cared if they were anyone else's and...!"

"_What_ did you just call me?!"

Harry looked away. He was able to mostly collect himself now, but only because he was afraid that there would be no getting out of this one. What would he do if the older man couldn't forgive him for seeing such personal things? He stood up, swallowed, and risked barreling forward. "I...called you Severus. I know I don't have any right to, but...I want to be on a first name basis with you and it slipped. I wouldn't be so inclined to dive into your memories every time I see them if you would talk to me."

"I am under no such obligation," Snape replied tersely. He wouldn't admit that the way 'Severus' rolled off of Harry's tongue was immensely appealing. Never. At least not aloud.

"I know," Harry answered awkwardly. "But..." Oh, this was daring. "I...I'm under no obligation to pretend my feelings are just some misguided sense of pity, just because it will make you feel better when you push someone who cares about you away!"

Snape grabbed Harry's collar in a rage. "How dare you!"

"How dare _you!_" Harry snapped back. "I'm fine, Harry. Just fine. Nothing to worry about. You fed me those lies so easily. But what you told Professor McGonagall is completely different! You don't even know if you're going to live, do you? And all the people who care about you, who are worried about you, you won't tell them anything! What are you afraid is going to happen?!"

Severus was stunned silent. Harry's eyes were brimming with tears and rage. So like Lily's, but they weren't Lily's eyes. They were Harry's eyes. He didn't feel for a moment as if Lily was the one shooting accusations at him. It was an odd sort of relief, and he found his rage and humiliation dimming by comparison. A part of him had always been a little afraid that he was just displacing his feelings for Lily onto her son, that that's why Harry effected him so. But now he realized, definitively, Harry effected him because he was Harry, and because Harry couldn't help but challenge him when he thought he deserved it...and often when he didn't as well.

It was not pity he saw in Harry's eyes now. There was anger and worry, but no pity. Snape's heart leapt into his throat. How could he answer this boy, who was staring at him with such raw emotion--a degree which Severus could no longer remember how to display, if he had ever known it. He broke the eye contact.

"...I haven't taken the purifying draft since yesterday," he said, and he could tell from Harry's shifting posture the boy wasn't sure what that meant. "...I no longer require it."

The anger and worry gave way to a much more innocent expression and Harry stepped forward without thinking about it. "So, you mean..."

Severus sighed. "I know you can't bring yourself to believe anything you haven't seen with your own eyes." He opened the top buttons of his robes to push his collar aside to reveal the injury in question. There was no bandage. The wounds had scabbed over. The angry-looking marks would probably leave a scar, but the healing had finally begun. It was hard to believe they'd given Severus such grief to look at them now. "Didn't I tell you that I'd be able to take the bandage off soon? You're overreacting, as usual, Potter. I would think, as a Gryffindor, you of all people would know what a mother hen Minerva McGonagall can be, whether you need one or not."

Harry laughed. It was a relieved laugh. His fingers unconsciously came up and grazed, just barely, over the injured flesh. Snape didn't even flinch. "Satisfied?" he asked the younger man, proud of himself for not reacting visibly to the touch.

"Hardly," Harry answered. "Relieved, yes. Satisfied? After what you left in the pensieve? Not even close to _satisfied_."

Harry was pleased to see the way the older man's cheeks turned a blotchy red as he realized he must have left something obscene within the basin of his misted memories. "That...was none of your business!" he found his voice crack in agitation again.

"I know," Harry answered frankly, closing the distance between them before Snape could notice and stop it. "I kept telling myself I should leave before things got out of hand. But now, I sort of think...you're the one who gave me the potion that made me confess to you like that. You're the one to blame for all the angst you've put me through. It's all your fault, really. So it's only fair that I got a little something out of the deal."

"A...little...something..." Snape's teeth grit, he had half a mind to curse the brat, but before he could even think up something snarky to say, Harry had pulled his head down rather abruptly and planted a very firm kiss on his mouth--one that made his knees go weak. The younger man's tongue tried to pry open his lips, but Severus kept them tightly pressed together, willing himself not to submit. He was only a boy. Lily's son. It wasn't right. But for all his efforts he felt he may have already lost. When Harry pulled back a bit with an irritated little sigh, he found his hands were resting on the boy's shoulders. His entire body felt warm. How is it just a touch, or a breath, a mere word from Harry Potter could almost instantly arouse him? "You're maddening," he complained, finding the words come out more like a smooth exhale than the sharp retort he'd been planning on.

"Let's go into your room," Harry answered as if the comment was irrelevant. "And you can tell me all about the parts of me that drive you the maddest." He pressed himself firmly against Snape, who looked as if his resolve was hanging by a thread. Harry pressed on, hoping to snap it. "And I can tell you all about how sexy you are, and how much I wish you'd stop piddling on trivialities and take what I'm offering already."

Severus barely managed to keep his voice steady. "Which is...what, exactly?"

Harry leaned in and planted a few kisses on the older man's bruised throat. "You know," he exhaled on the moist skin. "As much of me as you're willing to take." He smirked against the older man's tender throat. "As often and as thoroughly as you're willing to take it."

"Harry!" Snape protested, embarrassed.

"What?" Harry answered. "I'm of age. There's no law against it."

"Just because a thing isn't illegal doesn't make it right," Snape complained.

Harry silenced him with another deep kiss. "I know that," he murmured against the older man's swollen lips. "But it _feels_ _right_, doesn't it? That's got to count for something."

This time, Severus was the one to initiate the kiss. When his tongue probed at Harry's lips the younger man didn't hesitate to welcome it, eager to find out just how long he could hold his breath.


	7. Physical Therapy

**VII. Physical Therapy**

Severus Snape rolled over to check the time. He didn't think he'd slept more than two or three hours, and even that was intermittent at best. He wasn't complaining. What--ahem, _who--_he was doing in lieu of sleep was much more appealing anyway. If he thought about it, he was amazed he'd had so much energy--he was no longer a young and vital teenager like his current bedmate, but Harry somehow managed to make his body forget that for long stretches of time.

Speaking of, he watched as the boy yawned and stretched languidly. "Get back here," Harry complained.

"What's the matter?" Snape replied, "Cold?"

"Mmn, so fix it," Harry answered blearily, pulling Severus down against him again and tilting his chin up for a kiss. Snape had long since given up on hesitating and this time followed the younger man down to the mattress, claiming the lips he so readily offered. The way their tongues tangled now was familiar--they'd tangled enough in such a short time that the clumsiness was gone, and when the kiss broke, Severus trailed his lips down the column of Harry's throat, grazed his teeth over his collarbone, and continued onward. He knew what the boy really wanted, even if they were both nearly half asleep. He didn't feel any pressing need to protest.

Harry moaned softly as Snape's tongue made a path down his torso. "Ahn, Sev..." he moaned. He'd never dreamed when he first tried to seduce Severus Snape last night that the man would be such easy prey. No, he wasn't complaining, not in the slightest. Every time Harry had teased Snape, thinking _'maybe I'll be able to get one more round out of him_', he'd ended up with two, and was glad to accept both of them. They'd fucked, slept, fucked again, slept again. Harry was pretty confident there had been a lot more fucking than sleeping involved, and that's just how he liked it. Snape must let off some kind of pheromone meant only for him, because Harry was certain he had never been this wanton before. Every kiss and soft caress seemed to set his entire body aflame with desire. And Snape was so sensitive that he was sure it had to work both ways.

Well, that was fine. The weekend had begun, and they would have two whole days to try to get it out of their system enough to leave the bed. And if Harry couldn't walk when it was over, well, Snape probably knew a few good potions for that. He figured if it turned out that he had a permanent limp, he could just blame it on a Quidditch injury and keep coming back for more.

Snape's head disappeared beneath the comforter. Harry had a feeling he knew what the man was up to, but before they could get anywhere the door opened unexpectedly. Under the covers, Snape didn't notice, but Harry's head turned quickly toward the sound. His face heated instantly. He tried to claw at Snape's shoulders to give him some warning but the man didn't quite get the message right: "You could try for a _little_ patience, Harry," Snape complained, but the voice that hit his eardrum next was not Harry's.

"Oh my," Minerva McGonagall said.

Snape's eyes widened and he very nearly choked on his own oxygen. His bed rumpled head poked up urgently from under the sheets. Harry could only cover his face and look away, cheeks burning.

Snape, more annoyed at being interrupted than concerned at being caught--against all sense of logic, which tended to evaporate when one was about to get lucky--snapped at the woman. "What do you want?"

McGonagall 'tutted' at the rude address, but had a hard time hiding a bit of amusement at her colleague's predicament. "I _was_ bringing you more medicine from Poppy, Severus. However, it seems...Mr. Potter's...very unique form of treatment has made you energetic enough that we no longer need concern ourselves over such a small matter as your health."

He stared sullenly at her. This was bad. Absolutely mortifying, really. But Snape's natural reaction to such things tended to be anger. "If you know that, then hurry up and leave," he griped. Meddlesome woman.

"Yes, well, of course," McGonagall replied. "I wouldn't want to interrupt your...as the muggles would call it, _physical therapy_."

Snape couldn't help but wince a little. Damn the woman and her sharp tongue. She always managed to get the last word in. His brain froze before he could retort and she had already turned smartly on her heel, but paused a moment to say, "I will tell Poppy that her concern for your health is no longer warranted, but, Severus, I suggest in the future, you remember to lock the door."

As it snapped tightly shut behind her, Severus turned red up to the ears. Harry, initial shock relieved now that his Head of House was gone, couldn't help but chortle and peek at his lover through his fingers.

"What?" Severus complained, getting up and sitting beside the young man, arms crossing his chest. The mood had been destroyed, there was no sense trying to get it back now.

"...physical therapy," Harry said at last.

Snape glowered.

"Oh come on, it's a little funny," Harry nudged.

"Hardly," Snape answered. Merlin, that was devastating. To be caught in such a state!...

"Hey, no scowling," Harry declared, straddling Snape's lap and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another on the lips, which Snape returned grudgingly. His mood had soured, but Harry was determined to cheer him up. "She's gone now. And I don't think she'll tell anyone."

"That won't stop her from teasing me incessantly about it when no one is listening," Severus complained.

"Well, that's your fault, really," Harry said. And when Snape gave him a sharp look he added, "...for being so cute when you're embarrassed."

Snape couldn't quite find an appropriately biting reply, so Harry continued. "Now, where were we?"

"You can't be serious," Snape protested.

Harry chuckled and planted a sweet kiss on Severus's mouth. "It's fine, isn't it? You're so easy to rile up," he teased.

"And your hormones are insatiable," Snape replied.

"Yeah," Harry answered between planting soft kisses along the older man's jaw. "They are. But I'm an eighteen year old boy, and you're keeping up with me just fine. What kind of lecher does that make you?"

Severus sighed and let the boy win, tilting his head and allowing Harry access to move the kisses down his throat and add a few marks to his collarbone. "I suppose the kind that doesn't know where to draw the line when the one he loves is being unreasonable," he answered.

Harry's eyes widened a moment, and he smirked, lifting himself to plant the most engaging kiss yet on the older man's lips. Severus Snape had just called him 'the one he loves'. The admission was a precious gem he wouldn't soon forget. "Then I guess that makes me the kind of person who can't bear to be separated from the one _he_ loves, even for a second."

"I suppose that's convenient," Severus answered between hungry kisses, wrapping his arms around Harry's slender back. "Seeing as I've grown awfully tired of being alone."

He flipped them over, lowering Harry to the mattress and beginning to trail kisses down the young man's body once again, intent to pick up where they'd left off before they were interrupted. The day, he imagined, would be spent much like the previous night--alternating between sleeping, cuddling, and humoring the complete inability to keep their hands and mouths off one another. He couldn't even begin to imagine where all the lust and love between them might lead, but at least he could be certain that the road ahead was one they would walk together.

That, Severus decided, was as good a reason to live as any.

~The End~


End file.
